


silver

by catbrains



Category: X-Men - All Media Types, X-Men Evolution
Genre: Angst, Bullying, Child Abuse, Child Neglect, Developing Relationship, Eating Disorder Not Otherwise Specified, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-04-09
Updated: 2019-07-10
Packaged: 2020-01-07 13:50:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 17,847
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18411932
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/catbrains/pseuds/catbrains
Summary: Scott runs into Pietro in the empty school bathrooms while they’re both cutting class, and learns some things that he was perhaps better off not knowing when he notices that Pietro’s been stealing other people’s lunches.





	1. i

**Author's Note:**

> i rewatched evolution for the first time since i was about six and somehow tripped into the fandom with the sole intention of giving pietro the boyfriend(s) his bitch ass deserves
> 
> also
> 
> Angst
> 
> (titles are from “silver” by the neighbourhood)

It occurs to Scott, after near colliding with Pietro Maximoff in the school bathrooms, that he's never really had a chance to _look_ at Pietro before.

Perhaps it's a strange thing to think, but it’s undeniable - made obvious by the fact that seeing Pietro like this - still and close up - feels distinctly strange and new.  Scott’s seen Pietro plenty of times, of course, but usually only from a distance - from the bleachers in the gym while Pietro runs around a basketball court or skulks by the doors with the rest of his little group of weirdos, or while the two groups are facing off in any context.  Pietro is always at a distance, or he's a barely-seen blur of movement like a ghost, existing for a single instant before disappearing in such a non-pattern that seeking out his form makes one feel distinctly insane.

 

Scott tries to imagine if anyone gets the privilege - privilege? - of ever seeing Pietro in a relaxed state, close enough to see the details of his features without him taking a swing at them or swiping some of their possessions, but his mind comes up with no one except the other delinquents.  Pietro is always close to them, but it's never really relaxed. Really, the four of them look like they at least kind of hate each other, and Scott can't imagine that any of those grimy creeps have ever taken the time to sit and examine Pietro’s face - nor can he imagine Pietro letting them even try, as much as he likes to mouth off about being the most attractive out of the bunch by a mile.

 

Pietro _is_ pretty, in a strange sort of way.  He certainly doesn't look like anyone that Scott has seen before, even beyond his slicked-back hair - so completely white that it appears to Scott to be a perfect ruby red.  Pietro has distinctly delicate features - high, elegant cheekbones and arched brows and a long chin - the sort of things that would make a girl beautiful. To most people, it makes Pietro weird-looking - it certainly makes him stick out like a sore thumb - but Scott can appreciate the aesthetic of it.

His mind, unbidden, poses him the question of if he’d be attracted to a female Pietro, but he nips that thought in the bud before it can blossom with a particularly firm finality.

For a moment, he allows himself to wonder where the thought had come from, until —

 

“What do you _want_ , Summers?”

 

Despite himself, Scott jolts a little.  It's as if he’d forgotten that Pietro is, in fact, _real_ \- not a painting or a doll - and is also certainly not the type to enjoy being cornered and scrutinised in a dingy bathroom by Scott Summers of all people, particularly not when he’d been interrupted emerging from a stall with a suspicious bundle of brown paper strangled in his long fingers.

Although, Scott thinks, Pietro could certainly have just sped off if he wanted to, before Scott would have even had a chance to notice he was ever there.  Class has just started again after lunch, so it's not like anyone will be around in the hallways to witness it, either.

Scott had only dodged into the bathroom quickly because he’d spent the half of his lunch hour that he didn't spend eating helping Jean to track down a classmate who had borrowed a textbook she needed for her next class - a task he’d only been assigned because _Duncan_ was out training on the football fields.  

 

Scott knows he’ll get chewed out for being late, but it’s not as if he minds all that much.  He’d just wanted a minute to himself, to calm down his bitter thoughts about Duncan and Jean.  He’d even chosen the smaller and decidedly much grimier toilets near the back of the school, rather than the nicer ones at the front which most of the students use.

He’d had no idea that this was a place he’d find Pietro, but he supposes that it makes sense.  Mostly, he’s surprised that the others aren't around, or at least Lance.

 

“I’m in a bathroom, Maximoff,” he says flatly, meeting Pietro’s pale eyes through his tinted glasses as he tilts his head in a subtle challenge.  For a brief moment, he finds himself wondering what colour Pietro’s eyes are - if they're grey or blue or green, or maybe even silver. Like his hair, they’re light enough to appear an almost pure red, and Scott wonders if they're a part of his mutation like his hair surely is.  “What do you think I want?”

Scott watches Pietro’s eyes narrow.  His upper lip curls in distaste, surely irritated by the sarcasm.  Scott knows that Pietro likes being the most quick-witted person in the room, likes outsmarting everyone, and he also knows that Pietro dislikes him largely because he’s got that same knack for sarcasm, even if it's not quite as elegant and cutting as Pietro’s.

“Really?” Pietro purrs, a direct contrast to the look on his face, like he thinks Scott so stupid that he has to make his mockery obvious.  “With the way you’re crowding me into this corner, it almost seems like you want something from _me_.  Come for a fight, did you? Or are you looking for something _different_?”

 

Embarrassingly, it takes Scott a moment to cotton on to what ‘different’ means, but then the recent rumours whispered in the boys’ locker rooms come back to him, and he clenches his jaw.

He doesn’t know who had started it, but someone started whispering and laughing about Pietro being a cocksucker, and from there a rumour had blossomed that Pietro dished out blowjobs frequently - with quite an impressive talent.  No one could seem to agree on whether he did it for money or pleasure, whether he did it in the school bathrooms or a seedy gentlemen’s club that surely doesn’t even _exist_ in a neighbourhood such as Bayville, but Scott had paid no attention to any of it.  It was stupid and cruel and, while he disliked Pietro and the rest of that little group, he wasn't going to engage in bullying.

“I don't believe any of those stupid rumours,” he says, with genuine conviction that seems to surprise Pietro, if the slight widening of his eyes and dropping of his cold, wicked smile is anything to go by.  “And I’m not here to start anything. I just wanted a moment, alright? So you can--”

 

Really, he’s planning on being calm and level-headed.  Being the bigger man and letting Pietro scamper off to his class - or, more likely, wherever he sits to _skip_ class - but then something catches his eye.  Amongst the bundle held in Pietro’s hand, mostly consisting of the brown of what Scott assumes to be parcel paper, he sees a glimpse of a brightly-coloured juice box.  But not just _any_ juice box, it's a weird foreign juice box that Kurt likes and insists the Xavier Mansion be stocked with.

Just as he’d remembered the rumours, Scott remembers Kurt whining at the lunch table earlier because his juice box had somehow disappeared from his locker, and then anger sparks in his chest with the same destructive inevitability as his ruby red lasers spark from his eyes.

“What the hell, Maximoff?” he demands, stepping forwards in a rush and somehow succeeding in snatching at the bundle before Pietro dodges away in a blur, though he's still trapped in that tight corner, blocked from escape by Scott’s tall frame and broad shoulders.  The clumsy swipe isn’t enough for Scott to get the bundle off Pietro, but it's enough to make the smaller boy lose his grip, and the rubbish goes scattering all over the bathroom floor.

 

Just like Scott had thought, he sees Kurt’s juice box, but he sees much more than that.  He sees that the brown paper is, in fact, lunch bags, most of which feature stickers or little messages in pen written by students’ parents, ‘I love you!’s and ‘Work hard!’s.  Among them is the evidence of eaten lunches - plastic packaging from different snack foods and foil and Saran Wrap - though not a single crumb of food remains in any of them, like they've been rinsed or licked clean.  The evidence is all there, and Scott looks at Pietro with anger blazing in his eyes.

“I assume you're not hoarding all of this to recycle it, huh?”

He steps forward and Pietro steps back, his narrow shoulders jolting when his back collides with the wall.  He’s in a distinctly defensive stance, his back straight and his face taut to try and make himself look scary, but Scott can see the anxiety beneath it all, can see the way he tries to avoid cowering beneath Scott’s much larger frame.

He takes another step forward.  He wants to feed into it -- he _wants_ to scare Pietro.  It’s certainly not the worst crime that the boy’s ever committed, but thinking of all of those students going without food because Pietro wanted to be greedy pisses Scott off immensely.

 

“You know, I’ve heard plenty of rumours about you swiping shit before.  You used to steal stuff from the lockers all the time until we got you caught.  But now you're back to your old ways, huh? Getting greedy again, except this time it's _literally_.”

Scott kicks at the wrapper of a Twinkie, though he can't even picture the image of Pietro scoffing it.  Pietro is so thin and small and... _elegant_ , Scott can't picture him eating anything except some fancy meal that's so expensive it's _tiny_.  

Or, maybe, Scott can't picture Pietro eating anything at all.

For all the times that Scott has seen Pietro around, he’s never once seen him with food - whether it's during lunchtime or after school or even outside of school, whether Pietro’s sat on his own with a book or his cellphone clutched in his hand or with the others crowded around him, chattering or bickering or completely silent.  He supposes that this is the reason, though. Pietro just prefers to eat somewhere decidedly less busy than the boisterous cafeteria or around his friends who’d surely try and swipe his food, and he prefers to supplement his own lunch with the stolen lunches of others.

 

Scott shakes his head as he reads the pen scrawled on one of the crumpled lunch bags -

“Michael,

Don’t forget to study before your math test!!

Do your best, I love you!  

\- Mom”

It ignites a very particular ache in his chest, just the same as it does every time he sees his friends interact with their parents.  It's something like jealousy, something like a bitter betrayal from the universe, and he hates the experience just as much as he hates the selfish feeling itself.  Just as much as he hates the memories of fire and falling.

“So, what?” he grits out, crushing the bag beneath his foot as he takes another step forward, close enough now that he can almost feel Pietro’s breath coming out in shallow, rapid puffs, can see the way his birdcage ribs move beneath his tight black t-shirt.  “Why’d you steal everyone else’s lunches? Your own mom’s ‘I love you’ wasn't enough? You had to steal someone else’s?”

 

He realises that it's a bad step as soon as the words leave his mouth.  It's too cruel - it would be too cruel to say to _anyone_ , but he can't pretend that he doesn't know that Pietro probably doesn't have a cushy or even _normal_ home life, despite how much effort he puts into his appearance every day - making himself look mature and put-together.

He can't pretend that he doesn’t know that Pietro probably doesn't have a mother.  He can't pretend that he didn’t think about that right as he spoke, and had only found satisfaction in the fact that the words would hurt so much more, but he regrets it now - feels royally like a piece of shit as he watches Pietro's eyes swim through shock and grief and loneliness and fury in a single moment.  In the next, his hands are colliding with Scott’s chest in a brutal but ultimately weak shove, because Pietro is so tiny compared to him and has no hope of building up the momentum that he usually relies upon when he’s crowded against a wall.

“ _Fuck_ you,” Pietro spits, and the vulgar words sound strange on his tongue, his accent suddenly much thicker than its usual barely-there existence in the way his ‘R’s curl and ‘TH’s clump together.  “I stole the food because I was _hungry_ , alright, Summers? I’m not playing the part of your ridiculous super villain right now.  This isn't a nefarious, selfish plot for you to foil, you stupid fucking _hero_.  I was hungry, and—and I don’t have any food.  My stomach hurt. It...it hurt.”

 

The drop from fury to vulnerability is so sudden and jarring that Scott doesn't know what to do.  

He’s suddenly very, very aware of how small Pietro really is, staring at him like this.  His collarbones jut out, harshly enough to pull the neck of his shirt taut, though the pitch black material is tight enough for the rest of the details of his bone structure to be seen almost as clearly.  The lines of his collarbones to his shoulders, his thin biceps leading down to sharp elbows and brittle-looking wrists. His shifting rib cage and his tiny waist, the almost _concave_ appearance of his abdomen until his jeans interrupt, but Scott can see now that there's too much give to the waistline - enough so that it almost bunches up, making it clear that that pleather belt, hooked on the very tightest hole that looks as if it was made with a needle rather than by the manufacturer, is the only thing keeping them up on Pietro’s narrow hips.

 

He feels like he’s seen a whole awful slideshow of stuff that he was never meant to see - things he was never meant to learn, details he was never meant to notice.

He can't ignore it now, though.  Can't turn on his heel and just walk away, not when Pietro’s gaze is flickering helplessly between pure, unbridled rage and an exhausted sadness that Scott knows all too well.  He’s still hunched up, fluffing up his feathers like he’s ready for a fight, but Scott has no interest - not in physical violence nor a battle of wits or even just being a dick.

He feels awful, in a way that's almost unfamiliar, and he has to resist the urge - surely stemming from him being a big brother - to just gather Pietro up in his arms and try to hug him better, without having to muster up the words to explain himself.  Somehow, he thinks that touching Pietro at all would just get him murdered in some way or another.

He shakes his head, chewing on his lip for a moment before he forces himself to speak.

 

“I’m sorry,” he says, and Pietro flinches as Scott takes a slow step backwards to increase the distance between them and crunches plastic wrappers and paper bags beneath his sneakers.  Scott still can't quite wrap his head around how much there is - surely enough to feed five people. Had Pietro really eaten all of this by himself?

“I didn't...well, I guess saying ‘I didn't mean to upset you’ would be a lie.”  Scott lets out a short, awkward laugh that falls entirely flat, rubbing the back of his neck and staring down at Pietro’s sneakers, which look entirely out of place with the rest of his outfit considering how dirty and torn up they are.  “I guess I just didn't think about how much what I was saying would hurt. That was a dick move, I’m sorry. I know...how much that stuff hurts.”

 

He thinks of the disappointed look that Jean would surely be giving him if she were here right now, but it doesn’t make him feel as bad as the look that Pietro currently _is_ giving him, which he sees when he finally anxiously glances up.  It sure looks like Pietro isn’t used to being apologised to - he looks distinctly stuck between his anger and his upset, like he isn’t sure which one makes him weaker, and his pale lips keep trying to shape words that never come out, switching between the shape of a vicious hiss and the shape of an unsure question.

It doesn’t look like he’s going to reach a decision anytime soon, so Scott does another thing that could probably be considered a dick move.

“Do you really not have anything to eat?”

It would be an invasive question to ask a friend, so asking Pietro - an _enemy_ \- feels doubly so.  Scott isn’t sure what he expects - he thinks he does sincerely want an answer, because the feeling in his chest burns just a little too much to be simple curiosity rather than a vague sort of concern, but he also won’t try and force one if Pietro shoves him again.

The fight dissolves from Pietro, though, like cotton candy dissolving in water, and he finally seems to settle in a reluctant and deeply tired vulnerability.

“I _never_ have lunch,” he says, voice quiet and awkward but still rapid like it always is, like even his mouth moves too fast for the world around him.  “I try to leave the food at home for the others. They need it more. And...and I need discipline. I need control. It’s not a big deal. And it’s none of your _business_.”

 

The last statement, faster and more vehement than the rest, is clearly an afterthought, though it is true.  It’s none of Scott’s business at all, but - like Pietro had said - he’s a stupid hero, and he wants to try and do the right thing here.  Although, he really wishes the Professor would choose a moment pretty soon to pop into Scott’s head and instruct him on exactly how to do so, because the mention of _‘discipline_ ’ makes Scott’s stomach drop.

“What do you mean?” he asks, quiet like he’s a little afraid of the answer, and he watches as Pietro sinks into himself even more, tension running across his skinny shoulders.

“It’s not _mandatory_ ,” he mutters, trying to speak with conviction, but he starts fiddling with his fingers as his whole body seems to start humming with a restless energy too subtle or perhaps too _fast_ for Scott to really comprehend, because it seems to him like Pietro is still stood almost perfectly still - though he can tell, somehow, that that surely isn't the case.  Really, Pietro looks like he’s regretting ever standing still long enough for the conversation to begin, and Scott is very aware that at any moment he could lose this strange connection that’s somehow been established, perhaps influenced by the environment or the unexpectedness of their meeting or just that awful button that Scott had managed to press to hurt Pietro more successfully than any time he’s actually tried to physically hurt him.

“ _What_ isn't?” he asks, more firmly.  “What’s not mandatory?”

 

Pietro is silent, staring fiercely at the floor with his face curled into a furious grimace and his hands suddenly blurring, just barely moving at his sides.  Scott reads it immediately as aggression - as a warning that he's about to be shoved or punched before Pietro disappears off to god knows where, never to be seen this close by Scott or _anyone_ ever again, but even his natural fighting instincts seem to have taken a backseat.  He doesn’t tense up or get ready to dodge, and he certainly doesn’t get ready to fight back - in fact, he just prepares himself to take whatever Pietro’s going to throw at him before the smaller boy surely flees, but Pietro doesn’t have a chance to do anything before the door to the bathroom is creaking loudly as it’s all but thrown open, hitting the wall with a dull _thud_.  

Somehow, that does succeed in kicking Scott suddenly into gear, and he - moving entirely on the instinct to _protect_ \- grabs ahold of Pietro’s wrist and yanks him sharply to stand behind Scott as he whirls around to face whoever is entering, whether it’s an innocent student who just needs the bathroom or someone here to start some shit with either Scott or Pietro.

 

“‘Tro?” a voice calls, considerably gentler than their entrance would imply.  “You okay in here? Toad said you never came ou—“

Scott freezes as Lance Alvers comes around the corner, relaxed for a moment before his eyes meet Scott’s and he’s suddenly in a wary stance, like a wild animal.  His eyes narrow and his mouth opens, surely in question, but then his searching gaze which had been travelling over the rubbish covering the floor falls on the pale, delicate wrist held tightly in Scott’s large hand, and realisation spreads across his face a split-second before anger does.

“Hey!” he barks, taking a warning step forwards and glaring fiercely at Scott.  “The hell do you think you’re doing, Summers? Let him go!”

Scott, still running on instinct, only tightens his grip and pulls Pietro further behind him.  He recognises that Lance is angry, and that - to him - means he poses a threat that Pietro must be shielded from, but he doesn’t manage to get a word out before Pietro is twisting out of his grip in an effortless manoeuvre, too fast for Scott to even feel until he realises that he’s holding onto nothing but air and the space behind him is empty.

 

“Relax, Lance,” Pietro scoffs, already on the other side of the room at the taller boy’s side with a casual smirk on his face and a handprint of developing bruises around his wrist.  His other hand is rubbing gingerly but seemingly subconsciously at the marks, his gaze fixed on Lance and the task of distracting him from Scott. “What are you getting your panties in a twist for? I don’t need you to come be my knight in shining armour.  ‘Specially not against _Summers_.  Everyone knows I could take you both down in a heartbeat.”

Scott still feels like he’s trying to catch up.  Part of him still feels like he’s still holding onto Pietro’s wrist, and it occurs to him then that he’s not used to Pietro like Lance clearly is, because Lance tears his gaze away from Scott easily and looks down at Pietro and laughs, unphased by the lightning fast twist of events.  “Oh yeah?”

He looks down, and Scott sees his eyes darken again when he sees the purpling bruises marring Pietro’s skin.  His hand twitches at his side, like he’s suppressing the urge to reach out and touch the marks, and his eyes once again snap up to stare right at Scott, somehow ice cold and blazing with anger at the same time.  Pietro looks up too, looking between them, and then he rolls his eyes as if there’s no real weight at all to the tense aggression simmering in the atmosphere.

Scott still, absurdly, wants to grab Pietro back from Lance, and Pietro’s moving restlessly like he knows this.

 

“Come on,” he says to Lance, speaking even faster than usual. “Bored now.  Let’s go somewhere. Ooh! Let’s go freak people out in the park. Betcha I can knock over more people than you.  Race you to the car.”

Scott blinks and he’s gone, the only evidence of his exit being the gust of wind that kicks up the rubbish covering the floor.  For a single moment, in the silence, he’s convinced that he’d imagined the whole situation - or at least imagined those glimpses of vulnerability that he’d seen in Pietro, imagined those painful details of his seemingly starved appearance - but then there’s a series of harsh _crunch_ es as Lance stalks towards him, crushing paper and plastic beneath his boots until he’s almost nose-to-nose with Scott.

“You listen to me, Summers,” he murmurs, voice low and gravelly and dangerous.  “You stay the hell away from Pietro. I find out you put a hand on him again, and I’ll make sure your whole stupid goddamn mansion is on a fault line, and you and every single one of those other X-Brats will find yourselves getting crushed while you sleep.  You get me?”

Scott meets his eyes, lips quirking in a challenge that he doesn’t quite feel like he could actually follow through with.  “Thought Pietro said he didn’t need you fighting his battles.”

 

It’s definitely not a good idea to feed into Lance’s anger like this - Lance is _always_ a bad person to anger, and not only because his powers come out with his rage and his _powers_ are what decide exactly how much danger Scott is in of getting swallowed up by a fissure or crushed by a landslide.  

Scott isn’t quite sure if he’s imagining the way the ground beneath him seems to start to tremble just slightly, like Pietro had when he was getting worked up, but he doesn’t let his gaze slide from Lance’s, even when Lance’s eyes grow just that bit more deadly.

“Screw what Pietro said.  You keep your hands off him and you stay the hell away from him.  We Brotherhood boys have gotta look after each other, yeah? ‘Cause God knows nobody else is looking out for us.”

Lance steps back then, and - like Scott had done earlier - kicks at a wrapper just to watch it go fluttering off.  He very pointedly crushes and tears a paper bag with a mother’s sweet message on it beneath his dirty boots as he turns, and then he’s exiting the bathroom like nothing had ever happened at all, and Scott is left alone with a sea of torn up rubbish and a million thoughts swirling through his head, only to be met with another.

 

“ _I admire your efforts_ ,” the Professor’s voice, calm as anything, echoes in his mind, “ _But I fear that boy - Pietro - cannot be helped._ ”

Scott thinks, ‘ _That’s bullshit_ ,’ just a moment before he can stop himself.  He knows that the Professor hears it, but he composes his thoughts and tries again anyway.  

 

‘ _He can be.  I know it. I know there’s more to him.  And I don’t think I can leave him now._ ’

 

Miles away, in the Xavier mansion, Charles’ face curls into a rueful smile at those familiar words, in the same moment that Lance’s large, calloused hand curls around Pietro’s.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thank you so much for reading! 💕  
> please leave a comment to let me know if you enjoyed!


	2. ii

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lance and Pietro leave school together after the run-in with Scott. They don’t address the situation like they probably should.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i was,,, really not expecting this fic to get any attention at all, but i’m delighted that people seem to like it!  
> i’m sorry for the slow updates, but part of me thinking that this wouldn’t get attention was me being content to write rather slowly lmao
> 
> (i’m also writing, like, eight hundred other pietro things because i’m incapable of exercising self control, but you’ll have to stay tuned if you want to see any of that)
> 
> please enjoy!
> 
> (also, just a warning, this chapter contains vomiting, vague mentions of child abuse, and mentions of violence, as well as my own headcanons as to what pietro’s developing mutation would be like and the details of his childhood in the evo universe)

Lance had barely pulled out of the school parking lot in his Jeep when he noticed that Pietro - who had been rambling so quickly that the words seemed to completely blend together from Lance’s perspective, ranting about Summers and the X-Geeks and Mystique and everything else that pisses him off - had grown completely silent.  He’d glanced over to observe that the tiny bit of colour that ever seemed to exist in Pietro’s face had disappeared, and he had quickly come to the pretty obvious conclusion that Pietro was about to throw up.

“Hold on a minute,” he’d said, reaching out a hand to gently pat Pietro’s thigh in a somewhat clumsy attempt at assurance, and then he’d set about speeding just a little to get as far away from the high school - and the nice neighbourhood it resides in - as possible.  

 

It hadn’t taken too long to get vaguely to the edge of the run-down and quiet neighbourhood in which the boarding house is nestled, and Lance had pulled up next to an abandoned and dilapidated building which had perhaps once been a bar or club or something, and watched as Pietro scrambled with little grace out of the car and around the back of the building - apparently desperate enough to not be able to decide between super speed and normal speed, as he kept tripping and stumbling over his own feet when they tried to go too fast.

Before his exit, he’d commanded Lance to stay put - and to not, under _any_ circumstances, come after him - but Lance’s intentions to obey that instruction are dwindling with every second he spends in the silent Jeep, thinking about Pietro bent over in pain.

 

The debate going on in his head, weighing the ideas of Pietro beating his ass later and Pietro being grateful _now_ , seems to take hours, but in reality it’s probably only a few minutes, because when he finally throws the car door open with a bold sort of decisiveness, he can hear the distinct, distant sound of someone throwing up.  

He shoves the door shut quickly and just barely remembers to lock it before he’s running around the back of the building and coming up beside Pietro, who’s got one trembling hand and his forehead pressed to the rough brick of the wall in front of him.  Lance slows his pace, opening his mouth to say something, but Pietro’s doubling over again before he can even take a breath, and then Lance is grimacing as Pietro chokes up some more barely-digested food, panting and whimpering his way through the waves of pain in a rather pitiful display that he must be _hating_.

 

“Hey,” Lance says somewhat stiffly, approaching slowly just in case Pietro’s planning to lash out at him for daring to see him in this state.  No aggression comes, though - just another very young-sounding whimper, and Lance feels his stomach clench. “Hey, it’s okay.”

He stops right beside Pietro and reaches a hand out to carefully pat his head, but he ends up carding his fingers through the soft strands of Pietro’s hair when he feels cold sweat beneath his fingertips.  Underneath the hair gel, that is.

“‘S’okay,” he murmurs, “Just focus on me.  It’ll be over soon.”

Half of him wants to be annoyed.  Lance had had no idea what Pietro was planning after he’d disappeared from the table at lunch, and Pietro had certainly kept it a secret because he _knew_ it was a bad idea.  Not the stealing aspect - the whole Brotherhood is more than used to that - but the aspect of Pietro eating the shitty snack foods that most of the stupid upper-middle-class brats at Bayville get lunch bags full of every day from their parents.

 

Pietro has a stupidly sensitive stomach.  It doesn’t really make sense to Lance, though Pietro has explained it several times, but apparently Pietro’s mutation basically fucks with his whole body - his metabolism is crazy, tries to burn through everything he consumes at a speed that matches how fast he moves, and because of that certain foods just make his whole system go into meltdown mode, because his mutations are still kind of developing and thus his body can’t quite handle itself sometimes.  Caffeine and alcohol are the worst, for obvious reasons, though sugar has a similar effect, and there’s a whole list of other things that Pietro isn’t really supposed to eat.

If Lance had to guess, he would say that Pietro had probably eaten _all_ of them in his manic little binge, which makes Pietro a fucking _dumbass_ , but Lance also knows what desperation feels like.

 

He’d noticed earlier that Pietro seemed to be off - he was distant and quiet and kept wincing and almost doubling over at random, his hands flying to grip at his shirt over his stomach for a split-second before he got himself under control.  Lance grits his jaw when he realises that he should’ve _done_ something when he’d noticed - stolen some food that he knew Pietro could eat without hurting himself, or even just expressed that he’d noticed that Pietro was hurting.

But he hadn’t, and now Pietro is in pain and Summers is going to be on their ass because Summers can never leave anything _alone_.

 

“You know, the ground shaking isn’t _helping_.”

 

Lance, as usual, releases his instinctual grip on the ground beneath them both before he’s even snapped back to reality, pulled back by Pietro’s hoarse but characteristically haughty voice - a sound familiar and soothing enough that he can brush past the subtle pounding that begins at the base of his skull.

“Surprised you can sound so up yourself even while you’re doubled over vomiting because you did something stupid,” he says, but apparently Pietro’s finished emptying his stomach because he finally pulls himself up to almost full height and gives Lance a withering look.  He’s clean and looking about as put-together as possible, which Lance suspects he’s done in approximately the last nanosecond or two, unable to bear looking unkempt or unbecoming even in a context such as _this_.

Lance thinks for a moment about how this means that Pietro still doesn’t trust him entirely, but pushes that thought quickly into the back of his mind.

 

“Oh, because letting myself faint and get dragged to the nurse would’ve been a much better option,” Pietro drawls.  “She notices malnutrition, or fucks off and decides I’m _anorexic_ , and then she’s demanding to see a legal guardian.  Except the closest thing _I_ have to offer is Mystique - who’s gone off to God knows fucking where - and my good old father, who would probably murder me on the spot for daring to embarrass and inconvenience him like this.”

With the same instinct that Lance had begun shaking the ground moments ago, he reaches out and cards his fingers through Pietro’s hair again, intending to soothe him even while sending the already-disarrayed strands into what Pietro usually bitterly describes as “complete _chaos_ ”.

His hair is all soft and wavy and perpetually windswept when it’s not gelled down.  Lance loves it. Pietro usually complains, but he doesn’t seem to be in the mood right now, and even relents relatively easily when Lance pulls him closer and navigates them both smoothly away from the vomit on the ground.

 

“D’you think,” Lance asks on the way, “Magneto would take the whole getup off for a parent-teacher conference, or would he not bother?”

The question has the desired effect.  It doesn’t make Pietro _laugh_ , but it makes his lips curl into one of those little lopsided smiles as he shakes his head in pretend disapproval - a silent “you’re so _stupid_ ” that Lance knows to be about as close to genuine affection that Pietro is willing to get in most situations, with most people.

“Of course he wouldn’t,” Pietro says.  “It’s an intimidation tactic. How can anyone criticise his stellar parenting techniques when he’s exuding such effortless dominance?”

And that does succeed in making Lance snort with laughter.  It’s rare for Pietro to talk any sort of smack about his father - he always seems caught between some warped kind of hero worship and a very genuine kind of fear, beneath all of that “we’re just using each other” shit - but Lance likes it when he does.  Magneto deserves it, especially from his son, who he’s fucked over in countless ways.

 

“He is pretty ripped for an old dude,” Lance contemplates, looking thoughtful.  “But Xavier’s kind of ripped, too. Maybe they work out together.”

Surprisingly, Pietro lets out an actual laugh at that, and Lance notices some of the colour returning to his face, despite his eyes and cheeks still looking somewhat sunken.  “They’d make great gym buddies. BFFs in matching workout gear.”

And, just like that, it’s so easy to forget.  To push it all to the back of their minds. They’re just two teenagers, two friends, screwing around and hanging out, and Lance can forget for a little while about the state of their home or all the troubles at school or the fact that Pietro still needs something to eat, something _proper_ , because his stomach’s going to start hurting again soon and maybe he _will_ pass out and God knows Lance won’t know what the fuck to do then.

He shakes his head.

“The real ‘80s shit,” he agrees, giving Pietro a grin.  “Headbands and leg warmers.”

“Dad’s are that tacky burgundy he loves, of course.  The Prof’s are probably that god-awful yellow all the X-Geeks wear.  They’d look great together.”

 

Lance laughs again, and tries and fails not to stare as Pietro pushes a hand through his hair, which he hadn’t quite managed to fix despite surely trying countless times in the time since Lance had messed it up.  He spends so long doing it every morning with that stupid gel he steals from the drug store, it’s ridiculous, and everyone has told him plenty of times that it looks dumb as shit, but Pietro’s devoted to his aesthetic and Lance can’t really argue with that, especially when he screams every time someone comes near his hair with a pair of scissors.

“Your bruises aren’t healing.”  Lance himself has to pause for a moment to realise that he’s spoken out loud.  The observation had just fallen out of his mouth as soon as he’d noticed - because the bruises around Pietro’s wrist, still held up while he fiddles with his hair, are still there.  More developed, admittedly, but it’s been maybe half or three quarters of an hour and they’re still _there_.

Bruises usually don’t last ten minutes on Pietro, not unless he’s been knocked around pretty bad, and Lance can feel a mix of concern and anger swimming heavy in his stomach again.  He should’ve punched Summers, should’ve given him a bloody nose or, better yet, a _broken_ one, so he could’ve gone back to the other losers and explained exactly what he’d done—

 

A breeze hits Lance, and Pietro’s moved approximately two inches to the left of where he was standing moments ago.  Another major difference is the crumpled twenty dollar bill he’s holding.

“What,” Lance manages to say, and Pietro quirks an eyebrow in that way that means ‘ugh, you’re so _slow_ ’.

“Pickpocketed some guy uptown.  Real estate agent, I think. He looked like a dick, anyway, and his suit was from that overpriced place by the laundromat so he’s obviously got some money to spare.  There was no picture in his wallet, so no kids, presumably, so at _worst_ we’re depriving him of another ugly pair of tan wide leg trousers.   _God_ , they were ugly.  Let’s go.”

“Go where?” Lance follows Pietro even before he’s managed to get the question out, staring at the boy’s sharp, narrow shoulders beneath his thin black t-shirt.  It’s cold out, he thinks, so Pietro must be cold. He’s always cold. Another part of his mutation, apparently, is that his body’s bad at maintaining itself at a normal temperature - which Lance supposes makes sense, since it probably has to do some pretty weird shit so that he doesn’t overheat and/or freeze while he’s running.

Perhaps Lance would offer his jacket if he had one, be chivalrous and romantic and all that, but for now he can only offer the interior of his car.  

 

Well, not really offer.  Pietro climbs into the passenger seat of the Jeep long before Lance has caught up with him.  He doesn’t even glance back, but Lance smiles just a little as he rounds the car and clambers into the driver’s side.

“Go _where_?” he repeats as he pulls the seatbelt across himself, and Pietro scoffs.

“Grocery shopping, obviously.  Or were you planning on letting me waste away after all? Not to mention it’s only a matter of time before Fred ends up snapping.  He’s probably eaten Todd already in the time we’ve been gone, and God knows we can’t afford a funeral.”

“If Fred ate him, there wouldn’t be anything left to bury.”

Both of them, in unison, take a moment to grimace at the thought of what Todd would taste like.

“Ugh,” Pietro shudders.  “It would be like _escargot_ , except picked straight out of the mud.”

 

Beneath them, the car shudders to life as Lance turns the key - third time’s the charm, as usual.  The stereo crackles for a minute, before Nirvana’s _Heart-Shaped Box_ continues from where it had left off last time.

“Is-car-goat?” Lance attempts to echo, glancing at Pietro, and he’s surprised to see the boy’s face pull into what seems to be an affectionate - albeit still teasing - smile.

“ _Escargot_ ,” he repeats, curling the word in an accent that Lance could never hope to imitate.  “Snails. Like people eat in France. They eat frog too, actually, but only the legs. I’ve never tried that, though.”

“But you _have_ eaten snails?” Lance can’t help the way his nose wrinkles, thinking of slime and chewy textures.  Pietro lets out a soft sort of laugh.

“Once,” he says, then hesitates.  He taps his finger against his thigh, matching the bassline of the song, and Lance knows that, when Pietro begins speaking again a second or so later, he’s spent a much longer time deciding than it felt from Lance’s regular-speed perspective.  

 

“When I was young,” Pietro explains, “About six or seven maybe, Dad took us to this restaurant while we were visiting Paris.  When we were finished with our regular meals, he ordered us a plate of snails to try. At the time, it just seemed like something fun, but...knowing him, it was some sort of bullshit _test_.”

The affection drains from Pietro’s voice, leaving behind a hollow sort of bitterness that Lance knows all too well.  He removes one hand from the wheel and reaches out towards Pietro.

It takes a second, but Pietro somewhat tensely takes his hand and links their fingers.  As ever, Lance’s skin is warm and Pietro’s is almost ice-cold.

“Did you pass the test?” Lance asks quietly, when the silence stretches just a little too long, and Pietro’s grip tightens.

“It went the way it always did.  Wanda did it first, ate two with a smile on her face and Dad laughed and called her a good girl.  I choked down one, desperate to be good too, and Dad got mad at me when I threw up on the way home.”

 

It’s certainly not the worst story from Pietro’s childhood that Lance has heard.  In fact, it’s probably pretty firmly in the category of ‘least fucked up’, since it doesn’t involve vicious manipulation or straight-up torture.  It still makes something heavy and angry clench low in Lance’s chest, though.

He feels another burst of protectiveness over a child that he did not know - a child who hasn’t existed for many more years than the simple process of aging would make it.  Pietro killed that child long before he should’ve died, hardening himself into…

Well, the sort of person who can tell a story like that with the same cadence one may recall a minor annoyance at school.  ‘My teacher lost my homework so I had to do it again’ versus ‘My dad’s been trying to abuse me into a soldier since the day I was born’.  Pietro would probably claim that both situations matter just as little to him.

 

“I would beat the shit out of your dad if I could.”

Not the first time Lance has made that statement.  It certainly won’t be the last. If Pietro’s dad was literally anyone in the world other than fucking _Magneto_ , it would be more than just a statement.  It would’ve been said months ago as a promise.

A promise that Lance would’ve made good on.

But, given that Pietro’s dad does indeed happen to be a violent maniac with fuck-off metal-controlling powers, as well as being the man truly in charge of Lance and the Brotherhood, he doesn’t rate his chances of success nor his chances of _survival_ well if he even tried to spit at Magneto’s feet.

“Oh, be quiet.”  Apparently, Pietro agrees.  He usually brushes off Lance’s attempts to protect him or threaten those who have hurt him, but his voice right now seems heavier - more serious.  “Trying to square up with Summers is one thing, moron, but you stay _away_ from my father.”

Lance shakes his head and squeezes Pietro’s hand, swallows down the urge to express that he’s not sure he’d be able to stop himself if he witnessed Magneto hurting Pietro in the moment.  Even if he died for it, it would be worth it.

 

Saying shit like, ‘I’d die for you,’ isn’t really how their relationship goes, though.

 

“What were you and Summers even doing in the bathroom together?” Lance asks.  “Did he really corner you in there?”

He glances to the side, watching the way the afternoon sun catches the angles of Pietro’s face.  It’s a warm light, in contrast to the cold, late winter air, and it washes Pietro’s snow white hair a pale, pale blonde.

It makes him look more human, strangely - more tangible.

“He didn’t corner me,” Pietro says right as Lance looks to the road again, as if he’d been waiting to speak unscrutinised.  “He just came in, I don’t think he had any idea I’d be in there. But then he started getting pissy when he realised I was stealing people’s lunches.”

Lance scoffs, apparently still somewhat riding the high of his protective streak.  “Fucking X-Geeks have never _had_ to steal.”

He expects some sort of cutting agreement - maybe a continuation of Pietro’s rant from earlier - but nothing comes.  Lance looks over again and Pietro’s staring out of the window.

 

“Which store are we going to?”

If there’s one thing that Lance has learnt, both during his time simply living with Pietro and their time being whatever they currently are, it’s to respect a blatant subject change.

“Usual,” he says, watching the road and the mostly-empty streets, free of anyone except the odd housewife or old person.  “Place on the other side of town. They still don’t have cameras in there. Plus neither of us are banned yet.”

_Yet_.  Most of the Brotherhood except Pietro have been banned from just about every major supermarket or corner store around Bayville.  Pietro only hasn’t been banned because he can’t get caught, but he still gets suspicious glances from just about everyone.

Lance had once said that it’s because of his hair - everyone thinks he’s a punk or gay and bleaches it.  It had been meant entirely as the usual sort of playful jab, but Pietro had looked genuinely insecure when he’d asked late that night if he should just dye it black.

It had taken almost two solid days of Lance insisting that his silver-white hair was too pretty and unique to get rid of for Pietro to finally drop the idea, though Lance suspects it’s something that Pietro’s been thinking about for many years.

 

He’s a lot more insecure than all of his bravado would imply.  

It had taken a long time for Lance to recognise Pietro’s douchiness for what it is - an almost instinctive defence mechanism.  It still bothers Lance frequently, and he finds himself giving in when Pietro says cruel things and bothers him endlessly until he’s shoving Pietro and throwing fists and screaming at him, threatening him, trying to part the earth beneath his feet to send him falling and screaming down an endless chasm until he’s drowning in lava.

He’s learning, though.  He always apologises afterwards nowadays, and he never misses how damn confused and _vulnerable_ Pietro looks when Lance tells him he didn’t mean anything he said, he was just angry and it was wrong of him to say that shit because he would never really hurt Pietro.

 

The expression that Pietro always wears then is the same as the expression he’d been wearing when Lance had walked into the bathroom.

Even though he’s silently promised that he’ll leave it alone, sworn to it by that _look_ Pietro always gives him when he’s stepping on something that Pietro doesn’t want to acknowledge, Lance has every intention of finding out what the hell Scott did or said.

 

And he’s _definitely_ gonna break the asshole’s nose.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thank you so much for reading! please leave a comment if you want, it would make me super happy 💖


	3. iii

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Scott and Jean talk about what happened at school. Lance and Pietro do not. Todd and Freddy are out of the loop.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hey, guess who coughed up another chapter!  
> new characters enter the fray, Complicated Emotions are felt, and pietro continues to be a mess
> 
> once again, i want to thank you all for the feedback on this fic, i’m so glad people are enjoying it and i’m so grateful for your kudos and kind words! ily all!!
> 
> please enjoy!
> 
> (warning; this chapter goes a bit more in-depth with pietro’s relationship with erik, and thus has some more direct mentions of abuse and violence)

Really, Scott should know by now that it’s pointless to try and hide anything from Jean.

It’s not just the telepath thing.  Even without using her powers, Jean seems to have some hardcore women’s intuition.  She can immediately tell when somebody is upset, when somebody is lying, and she generally uses these not-powers to drift around the other students at school and at the mansion, helping out where she can or just being a kind and patient presence where she can’t.

 

Of course, Scott gets no such gentle treatment.

 

“Scott.”  Jean’s voice is stern, the voice she uses when she disagrees with a decision that Scott has made and is convicted to convince him of his idiocy before he can take it any further.  Scott knows immediately what she‘s referring to - the Pietro incident earlier - but he has no idea how she could have found out without delving into his mind, which she would have had no reason to do.  

“The Professor told me about what happened earlier.”

Ah.

Of _course_ , nothing at all can be hidden from Jean when the Professor decides it’s something she needs to get involved with.  Is there no confidentiality to telepathic crisis conversations these days?

 

“Jean,” Scott begins with a sigh, looking up from the sports car magazine he’d been flipping through.  He’d only arrived home from school along with Jean, Kurt, and Kitty a short while ago, and had gone straight up to his room - half to spend some time thinking, and half to avoid the curious gazes of everyone else, who had certainly noticed how strange he’d been acting ever since the end of lunch.

“I’m serious, Scott,” she cuts him off before he can even begin constructing some sort of explanation for himself.  “What were you thinking, getting involved with Pietro like that? You could’ve gotten hurt!”

Perhaps he could’ve.  If Pietro had wanted to, he could’ve taken Scott out pretty easily, especially since his powers are considerably easier to use without drawing a wild amount of attention than Scott’s.  But Pietro hadn’t seemed to be in any state to be the smug, slippery bastard he usually is, and apparently Scott’s remaining concern for the younger boy is enough to be picked up on, because Jean’s vindictiveness seems to fade.

 

“Why don’t you tell me what happened?” Jean says, walking closer and taking a seat on the edge of Scott’s bed.  Her eyes are gentler now, searching, and Scott waits a few long moments, hoping she’ll waver, before he lets out a long sigh.

“I thought the Professor already told you.”

Jean shrugs, “Not entirely.  He told me you had a run-in with Pietro in the bathrooms.  That there was some sort of conflict. He said you tried to extend a friendly hand to Pietro, and almost got hurt because of it.  I’ve told you, Scott, you shouldn’t waste your time with the delinquents. Your squabbles with Lance Alvers are bad enough—“

“He looked like he was sick, Jean!”

Scott’s voice is sharper than even he was expecting.  Respectfully, Jean stops talking and even looks vaguely apologetic, her eyes very clearly encouraging him.  Scott knows his anger is misplaced, he doesn’t want to blow up at Jean, so he sighs again and closes his eyes so that he doesn’t have to look at the red-tinted room.

All he can think about is Pietro’s eyes.

 

“Pietro, I mean,” Scott says, quieter.  “I went into the bathrooms at the back of the school, just...for a breather.  I guess he’d been sat in there eating, because he was holding all of this food he must’ve swiped from other students.  I got mad, I thought he was just stealing for the fun of it, like when he used to steal stuff from Evan, but…”

Jean reaches out and places her hand atop Scott’s.  It’s not quite romantic or particularly intimate, just grounding, but Scott still feels a vague, bitter tug of _something_ at the feeling of her soft skin.

He shakes his head.  “I mean, I knew the Brotherhood was poor.  Boarding houses aren’t exactly funded well, and Mystique sure as hell doesn’t seem like the generous type, but...he said that he could never afford lunch.  It must’ve been ages since he last ate. He looked so skinny and tired and desperate and I just...felt like an asshole. I wanted to help him, but I’m not good with people like you are.”

Jean’s lips tug into a sympathetic smile.  “He got mad at you?”

“I just...said the wrong thing.  I said some awful stuff to start with, and then I tried to backtrack and apologise.”

 

“And we both know you’re terrible at that.”

Despite Scott’s attempt to glare, Jean’s teasing smile manages to pull a chuckle from him, along with some of the tension.

“I guess I just asked too many questions.  He doesn’t trust me - of course he doesn’t.  All we’ve ever done is try to fight him. All that he told me he seemed to only tell me because he was overflowing.  Like...you know, when you’ve been bottling everything up for way too long and you’re so desperate to let it go that you’ll open up to anyone, even if doing that only means you get hurt?”

Sometimes, even though he often complains about Jean’s telepathy, Scott finds himself deeply thankful that she’s got it in contexts outside of battle.  It means she can understand him, no matter how poor a job he’s doing at expressing his thoughts.

“I think...Pietro’s probably been hurt a lot.  He managed to bottle himself back up even when everything was already spilling out.  He looked so upset, like...like a kid, and then suddenly he just looked _angry_ again.  He probably would’ve punched me if it wasn’t for Alvers showing up, not that Alvers wanted to beat the shit out of me any less.”

 

Jean seems to blink in surprise.  “Lance was there? I thought it was just Pietro.”

“No, Lance showed up in the end.  I guess he and the others had been waiting for Pietro.  As soon as he laid eyes on me with Pietro, he got angry.  There probably would’ve been a fight, but Pietro ran off and I guess Alvers decided he’d rather chase after him than spend any more time with me.  He threatened me, though. Told me to stay away from Pietro, or there’d be trouble.”

“Why would he be so protective?” Jean wonders, brows furrowing.  “It’s not like you were doing anything other than talking.”

At that, Scott suddenly remembers Pietro’s bony wrist held tightly in his grasp, remembers the way he’d dragged the other boy.  He winces and shakes his head.

“The whole situation was just one misunderstanding after another.  And it’s not like I can just sit down with either of them to smooth it over.”

Jean gives him a stern but somehow sympathetic look.

“Smooth it into _what_? Scott, we’ve never gotten along with the Brotherhood.  We probably never will. As nice as it would be, you know that...that we’re just too different.  We can’t all be friends if we’re trying to protect what they’re trying to destroy.”

 

Despite the gentle tone of her voice, the voice she always uses when she’s talking Scott down, her words still make something like frustration burn in his chest.  Until earlier today, he’d been the authority on hating the Brotherhood - especially Pietro and Alvers, who happen to be the only two out of four who aren’t just plain stupid and can thus cause some actual _trouble_.

Now, however, he feels conflicted.

Jean must pick up on this, as well as the fact that it’s a type of conflicted that he doesn’t want to talk out with her, because she gently rubs his hand before standing.

“Well.  I’m going to go see Kitty.  You’re welcome to join us in a while if you’re interesting in either doing Chemistry homework or getting your nails painted.  It depends on how well we manage to concentrate.”

Scott laughs and gives her a short wave before she leaves, shutting the door gently behind her and plunging him once again into the silent torture of his thoughts.

 

What is he _meant_ to do? Scott is at least marginally used to his course of action being the pretty clearly defined ‘right thing’.  Of course, in some situations it’s considerably more difficult to identify what the right thing is, and in many more it’s a lot more difficult to _do_ it, but Scott isn’t even really clear on his options here.

He knows he should help Pietro.  He _wants_ to help Pietro, but he doesn’t know what that will entail.

He needs to learn more.  But that will involve the small miracle of ever getting Pietro to sit still and actually _talk_ to him again, which would be difficult enough without the added danger of Alvers sniffing around.

 

Groaning, Scott runs a hand down his face and rises, making his way downstairs to see if he can help with getting dinner plated up.

  
☁︎

 

“‘Tro, can you do the di—“

Pietro stands, walks across the kitchen, turns on the rusty tap, and finishes them in the time it takes Lance to say ‘—shes’.  He would’ve been faster, if it weren’t for him having to wait those agonising few moments for the water to begin flowing, but at least he doesn’t have to wait for it to warm up.

They haven’t had hot water for a good few weeks now.  It’s only a matter of time before they don’t have any water at all, but that’s a bridge they’ll cross when they get to it.

Probably with another robbery.

 

He sits down again before Lance has finished the final ‘s’, and glances up to see the way the taller boy raises an eyebrow at him expectantly.  Pietro rolls his eyes.

“ _Done_.”

Lance looks confused for a moment, but then finally looks over to see that the pile of dirty dishes has indeed disappeared - cleaned to a perfect standard and put away neatly in each of their respective places, not that many are left now that the cupboards are falling apart.

“Oh.  Uh, thanks.”

“You’re so very welcome.”

His sarcasm earns him a sharp look, but everything sharp between them has been dulled to an almost nonexistent edge in recent months.  Even more so now, after the incident at school and then outside that abandoned building. Lance is being _gentle_ now, like Pietro needs coddling, and it draws another eye roll from him before the front door slams open.

 

“Yo, you damn assholes!”

Todd’s voice echoes throughout the house, nasally and tight at the back of his throat, moments before he and Freddy come bitterly marching into the kitchen, arms crossed.  

“What,” Pietro says flatly, and finds a small amount of amusement in the way Todd’s cheeks redden with his feeble fury.

“You left us at school, yo! Disappeared after lunch! Didn’t tell us you were leavin’ or nothin’! Left us waitin’ there like idiots after school until one of the X-Geeks told us you sped off hours ago like you were runnin’ away to get married.”

Freddy helpfully throws in a ‘yeah!’, clearly enjoying getting to feel like a part of something by riding shotgun to Todd’s anger.  Pietro raises an eyebrow.

“The word is ‘elope’.”

“ _I don’t care what the word is, yo!_ ” Todd’s voice raises in both pitch and nasality.  “We had to walk! I want an apology!”

 

Sighing, Pietro stands, and Todd leaps away, looking terrified.  

_That’s_ enough to pull a smile from Pietro.

“I’m not the one who decided to leave you two morons.  You’ll have to talk to Rocks-fer on that front. But how’s this for an apology on _both_ of our parts?”

Smiling sardonically, he gestures to the few bags of groceries on the countertops, where Lance is stood trying to figure out where to put stuff.  Immediately, both Todd and Fred seem to forget their anger.

“Food!” they exclaim in unison, then share a look of shocked delight before they descend upon it like animals.  Lance exclaims in alarm and does his best to shove them both away, clutching a jar of off-brand tomato sauce in one hand and a bag of cheap spaghetti in the other.

“Hey, assholes, it’s not even cooked yet! What, you gonna eat raw pasta?”

“A coupla days ago I would’ve considered it, yo! Where’d we get cash from?”

“Yeah,” Fred adds, staring mournfully at a bag of candy he can see in one of the bags but respecting the barrier of Lance’s arm.  “‘Tro, did you snatch somebody’s wallet again?”

 

“First, never call me that again.  Second, no, I’m not as dumb as you.  I only took some cash. He won’t even notice.  But it was enough to keep us alive for another few unfortunate weeks.  Now, say ‘thank you, Pietro’.”

Obediently, Todd and Freddy echo the sentiment and Lance gives Pietro an unimpressed look.

“And say ‘thank you, Lancey’.  He’s the one who picked out the food.  Since he’s apparently a nutritional expert or something.”

Yet another unimpressed look at that.  Lance gestures Freddy towards the stove to start boiling some water, and then turns back to Pietro.

“I’m not.  But I tried to choose some stuff that would help your dumb ass get better.”

“Get better?” Todd’s voice sounds suddenly concerned, looking between Lance and Pietro like a confused child looking between their parents.  “Yo, ‘Tro’s sick?”

“I’m _fine_ ,” Pietro states thinly.  “And for the last time, don’t call me that.  I’m going upstairs.”

 

He leaves the idiots to their bickering, speeding upstairs in the time it takes them to process his words.  He locks his bedroom door behind him, as usual, then sighs as he observes the space.

Even now, he still hasn’t had the heart to make it looked lived in.  When he was a child, he, Wanda, and father had moved around constantly, hopping from country to country in Europe, never settling anywhere.  Perhaps it was appropriate to their Roma heritage - travelling, living freely, having no defined _home_ \- but it had never felt like that.  It hadn’t felt like a way of life. It had left like a _lack_ of one.

Even as Pietro had picked up more languages than he cared to count, always learning them so much faster than Wanda did under the exposure and Father’s tutelage, he’d never felt like anything except someone passing through, not to be remembered or even noticed at all beyond how the other children stared at himself and his sister - at his sister’s darker skin and thick black curls, and his own paper white complexion and even paler hair.  

People used to say he looked like an alien, and his sister acted like one.

_Freaks_.

 

They’d left more than one ‘home’ after the people there had attempted to scare them out.  When Pietro had been beaten up, or Wanda had been cornered and taunted viciously, or Father had been recognised somehow.

Pietro had entered America, entered New York, convinced that it would be the same.  He hadn’t expected to lose Wanda here, nor to finally be given away like the burden he always has been.

He shouldn’t be so bitter.  Father had taken him back, after all - had come and saved him and set him down somewhere where he could have an eye kept on him before he finally got to fulfil the destiny he’d been waiting his whole life for, but he still feels angry.  He thinks about his conversation with Lance earlier, but can’t even bring himself to laugh again.

 

Sometimes, he wonders what it would be like if he killed his father.

Would he feel good? Free? Safe?

Or would he lose all purpose and be left nothing more than a shell?

It’s not like he really has any interest in life beyond what his father has drilled into him.  School is boring. Humans are stupid. Even other mutants are a goddamn pain. The only thing that has ever kept Pietro going is the hope that someday things won’t be like this.  Mutants won’t just be equal, they’ll be _superior_ , and nobody will ever be treated like his father and himself and his sister.  His father will rule, and he’ll be a prince, and Wanda will come back, and everything will get better.

 

His secondhand delusions are interrupted by a gentle knock at his bedroom door, and he’s almost grateful for the company.  Only because he knows who it is, though.

He speeds over to unlock the door and then doesn’t bother to slow himself down, instead unhappily settling himself down on his mattress on the floor and growing deeply impatient in the time it takes Lance to open the door, walk into the room, and then close the door behind him, each task an agonising eternity.

“Hey,” Lance says quietly, having apparently become somewhat awkward again in the few minutes they’ve been apart, and Pietro rolls his eyes once again.  He pats the space beside him on the mattress briefly, covered neatly with black sheets, and watches as Lance crosses the immaculate room to drop down heavily beside Pietro, their shoulders just barely touching.

“You’ve been thinking too much.”

 

It’s impressive, perhaps, that Lance Alvers of all people has begun to manage the nigh impossible task of _reading_ Pietro Maximoff.  No one before him has ever managed except Wanda, but Pietro still isn’t sure if it had been because they’re twins, and thus linked in some deep and spiritual way, or simply an early development of her strange powers.

Dimly, he wonders if that link still exists - if she can still sense him, can still feel his pain like she seemed to be able to when they were children.  She’d always been the first to come running if someone on the playground lashed out at him, or if Father grew impatient and backhanded him across the face.

They were always carefully separated when Father did anything worse, though.  Father had learnt his lesson the first time Wanda had been old enough to process that he was hurting Pietro, and had fought and screamed herself hoarse until Father had stopped and let Wanda clamber onto the medical bed beside Pietro to hold her brother, clumsily wiping away the blood from the needle marks over his skin.

 

Lips curling into a bitter, distant smile, Pietro shakes his head.

“I’m just thinking.”

“Exactly,” Lance says.  “You can think a thousand things in the time it takes the rest of us to think _one_.  Any time you’re quiet and still for more than a nanosecond is a time you’re letting your brain torture you.”

Pietro winces visibly at the choice of words, and confusion crosses Lance’s face before he sighs thinly and throws an arm around Pietro’s shoulders, pulling him closer.

“I wish I could understand.”

_You’re already closer than anybody else ever has been,_ Pietro thinks.

“You don’t want to,” he says.

“It’s about your dad again, right? About Wanda.”

 

Lance knows little of the story.  More than anybody else, sure, but still not nearly enough for him to understand Pietro and his father and the sister he’s never met and probably never _will_ meet.  Pietro has always been wary about sharing, has always known the dangers of doing so as long as he’s known that other people will see his father’s actions as _wrong_ , and he’s even more guarded with Lance now that he knows that Lance feels something for him, wants to _protect_ him.

Lance cried the first time Pietro had told him a painfully vague account of his Father’s mistreatment and subsequent abandonment of both of his children, even though Pietro had expressed his confusion.  Lance had been hurt too, had suffered through two alcoholic and drug-addled parents before he finally got pulled into the foster care system, but Lance had said that it didn’t _matter_.  Pain is pain, it’s all different but it all hurts, and the only thing that hurts worse than your own pain is the pain of someone you love.

 

Feeling his breathing tighten, Pietro turns and lays himself in Lance’s lap, hiding his face against the warm, tan skin of the older boy’s neck.  He can feel confusion go through Lance, perhaps overwhelmed by the sudden intimacy and display of trust in Pietro lying almost entirely on top of him, but Pietro doesn’t care.

His eyes are burning, wetness gathering at his lash line, and he doesn’t want Lance to see.  Father had always punished him for crying, and - while he doesn’t think for a second that Lance would do the same - he knows to be guarded, to be ashamed.  If he just hides for a while then he’ll be able to swallow it all down, be fine again by the time Freddy’s yelling to get them down for dinner and Pietro has to work out how to eat the smallest possible portion - work out what the smallest possible portion _is_ because he needs discipline, needs to push his limits, needs to work out what his body can handle without killing himself in the process - and also get the rest of them to eat as much as possible.  

 

All the progress he’s made on the ‘getting ahold of himself’ front is ruined the moment Lance carefully wraps his arms around him, all strong and gentle and secure in a way that makes Pietro feel like his heart is going to spill out of his throat.  

“Don’t,” he chokes out pathetically, scrunching his eyes shut, but Lance’s arms only tighten, one around his waist and the other higher up, Lance’s palm resting right where Pietro’s heart is hammering, his thumb gently moving back and forth over the fabric of Pietro’s t-shirt.

“‘S’okay,” Lance whispers.  “I like holding you. I don’t mind stayin’ like this all night.  I’ll eat cold spaghetti.”

Pietro lets out a choked, shaky laugh, but there’s another ache in that he knows Todd and Freddy would set aside two platefuls for them and wouldn’t dare touch them, no matter how hungry they themselves were.  It’s such an unfamiliar feeling, to be _cared_ for, and Pietro finds his thoughts once again drifting to Scott Summers.

 

Scott is the last person that Pietro could ever imagine caring about him.  Scott hates him, hates all of the Brotherhood, but there had been _something_ in his eyes in the bathrooms earlier, something so much deeper than that shallow concern Pietro used to see in the eyes of people who saw his marks and bruises when he was a child, or the people who see his misery and emaciation now.

Maybe it’s just Scott’s desperation to be the good guy.  Maybe he’s convinced it’ll earn him the favour of whoever he thinks matters, pretending to care about his rival and offering a hand like a _hero_ would, as if the X-Men and that asshole Xavier ever offered them anything when it really mattered.  To Scott, showing kindness to Pietro is probably just another line of bullshit to add to his superhero portfolio.

 

God, why is Pietro even thinking about it at all? Thinking about _Scott_ at all? Surely it’s wrong to when he’s in Lance’s arms, being readily provided with safety and comfort, but there’s something like curiosity eating at Pietro’s mind, some sort of craving.  

He doesn’t need Scott’s pity.  He doesn’t _want_ Scott’s pity.  He and the Brotherhood aren’t a charity case to be picked up, and Pietro can only imagine his father’s fury if Magneto discovered that his son had sought help from Xavier and his merry band of yellow-spandex-wearing losers.

 

Still, later, as Pietro is sat beside Lance in the silent kitchen eating their barely-lukewarm spaghetti - Lance with a tall plateful and Pietro with barely a serving - Pietro decides that he’s going to talk to Summers again.  

It’s always good to know your enemy, after all.  But, he promises himself, Summers is not going to know another goddamn thing about him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thank you for reading! please leave a comment if you’d like to, i’d love to hear what you think!  
> (even though i’ve been bad with replying bc i keep just rereading them a thousand times and then forgetting to, lmao)


	4. iv

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Scott and Pietro meet in the bathroom again. Conflict arises, then rises some more. Scott makes a discovery regarding the exact details of Pietro and Lance’s relationship.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> and, roughly on time, i return again! i’ve been stressed for the whole month that i wouldn’t get this finished, but here it is - and it’s long as shit, too
> 
> once again, i’d like to thank everyone who has left comments and kudos and bookmarks on this fic, or even anyone who may just be reading silently - you’re all great and i love you a lot  
> i hope you enjoy this chapter as i step on your feelings some more
> 
> pietro really isn’t having a great time
> 
> (warning; this chapter contains violence, bullying, a spattered usage of homophobic slurs, and more mentions of Magneto The Absolute Worst Dad)

Perhaps there’s some merit to the idea that criminals always return to the scene of their crime, because it’s only three days after their initial conversation that Scott and Pietro once again find themselves in that same bathroom in Bayville High, staring each other down like they don’t know how to talk.

Scott certainly doesn’t know what to say.  Pietro hadn’t been at school on Friday - the day after The Pietro Incident, as Scott has officially dubbed it in his head - and the weekend had felt agonisingly long, even though it had been filled by a trip to the mall and plenty of fun with all of his friends.  Even as he’d laughed with them - watched Jean try on eight thousand different dresses and crop tops and shoes and told her she looked great in all of them, listened to Kurt gleefully tutor Kitty and Evan on what every item they picked up is called in German, encouraged Rogue to try on the pretty emerald green dress she kept staring at until she’d caved and they’d all told her she looked great and she’d scowled but smiled when she bought it - his mind had been constantly plagued with Pietro and, by extension, Lance, wondering what their lives are like at the boarding house, if the Brotherhood boys ever hang out together or go on days out or have fun.

 

Pietro certainly doesn’t look like he’s had a fun weekend.  He looks somehow even more worn down than the last time Scott had seen him, his shoulders hunched forward and his eyes surrounded by darkness, and Scott has to wonder whether Pietro had really been waiting for him, or if he’s simply too tired to run away.

 

“No lunch today?”

It’s as good an opening as any.  Pietro, indeed, does not have any wrappers in his hand this time, nor are there any around the cramped bathroom.  The litter from last week had long since been cleaned up by Scott, after Lance and Pietro had left.

“No,” Pietro says.  He’s fidgeting, pulling at his fingers, his movements lethargic and his back stiff.  It’s an odd look on him, awkwardness - particularly when he usually seems so infuriatingly aloof, always lax even when he’s getting yelled at by a furious teacher or mocked by some obnoxious jock.  “‘S’more trouble than it's worth.”

 

Scott, somewhat confused, raises an eyebrow.

“Didn’t think some petty thievery could cause _you_ trouble.  You’ve never seemed to have any issues with it before.”

He’s expecting a snippy response, and he gets one - just not in the usual caliber.

“It’s not the stealing,” Pietro scoffs, letting out the sort of chuckle that’s entirely devoid of humour.  “I could do _that_ in my sleep.  It’s…”

He trails off like he’s remembering something and, just like that, he clamps up again, shaking his head.  “It’s something else. None of your _business_ , Summers.  Anyway, you’re one to talk with your ‘no lunch?’ Where’s your merry band of losers? Didn’t wanna have your picnic with them today?”

Scott shrugs, trying to swallow down the ire that Pietro’s wording builds.  “I ate quickly. They’re all talking about Jean and Duncan, anyway. I’d rather not listen to that.”

 

“Oh, right.  Forgot that they’re the hot new couple.  Of course, you’re jealous,” Pietro lips curl into a grin suddenly, tired eyes wicked.  “I’m glad to see even the great Scott Summers isn’t immune to pettiness. Isn’t being the bigger man supposed to be a big part of the whole hero shtick? Although, I guess, you’ve always let Duncan get under your skin.  It’s even worse now that he’s stolen your girl.”

“Jean isn’t my girl,” Scott fails to stop himself from snapping.  He breathes deeply and tries to calm down, the way the Professor’s taught him - the way the Professor had told him to do when they’d finally sat down and talked about The Pietro Incident.  The Professor had said that Pietro is good at avoidance, that he annoys people and acts out so that they’ll lose patience with him, and Scott had wondered how he knows all that. It doesn’t seem like the sort of thing that telepathy would tell you.  

 

“I mean—Sure, me and Jean...We’re close, but—“ Scott tightens his jaw and shakes his head, gaze dropping to the floor.  “She’s not mine if she doesn’t want to be. She likes Duncan.”

That much had been made clear on the mall trip.  Scott doesn’t even know how Matthews had found them, if it really had been pure coincidence, but he’d shown up with his stupid grin and made quick work of whisking Jean away to hang out with him and his gaggle of football and cheerleader friends.  Jean had called over her shoulder, not unkindly, that she wouldn’t be needing a ride home with Scott.

Scott had felt empty, in a pathetic sort of way.  A dull sort of pain. But it hadn’t been the sharp, hot jealousy that he used to feel about Jean.

 

In a moment, Pietro has moved from standing opposite Scott to instead being lounged atop the row of sinks, already settled like he’s been there an hour.  Already fidgeting. “It must hurt, though, right? The person you like liking someone else.”

Honestly, Scott doesn’t know whether Pietro’s trying to rile him up or hurt his feelings or what.  He always talks like everyone else in the room is an idiot.

It doesn’t really feel like that now, though.  Pietro’s still being a little haughty, sure, and Scott’s definitely being a bit standoffish, and it’s _awkward_ , but it’s the closest to a normal conversation they’ve ever come together.

“It...it does,” he says, too softly, too unsurely.  “I mean, you must’ve experienced it before too, right? Or...maybe not, since you’re younger.”

 

Pietro rolls his eyes, swinging the leg that’s hanging from the sinks and letting his heel thump rhythmically against the cupboards.  His torn-up Vans leave dark scuff marks behind. “Yes - by, what, a year? Two years? Oh, tell me, wise elder, what knowledge am I lacking in my youth? Will my hubris be my downfall? Will my rage leave me cold in the grave? Exactly how hard _is_ twelfth grade Chemistry?”

Pietro flutters his eyelashes, expression blank, and Scott bursts out laughing.  He feels the strange urge to reach out and ruffle Pietro’s hair like he does to Kurt sometimes, but it’s a different feeling somehow.  He kind of just wants to see if Pietro’s hair is really as soft as it looks, even underneath all that gel keeping it slicked back.

He quickly shoves the thought away and shakes his head, still smiling.

Pietro’s smiling too, just a little, and Scott stares.  Just a little.

 

“Seriously,” Pietro says, “You shouldn’t be worrying about Jean like you’re both in your thirties.  She’s not going to run off and marry Matthews. You’ve got plenty of time to win her heart right back, hero.  All that time you spend fighting valiantly side-by-side against the threat that the Brotherhood poses to this fine town has gotta count for something.  And Matthews can’t touch that. Not unless he sprouts wings or turns purple or something. But, then again, maybe he’d rather join us.”

Scott lets out a soft sort of breath of laugher at that, but his brows crease at the same time.  He hesitates, not sure if he wants to break the air of camaraderie that has somehow been created, but he decides he’d like to know.

“Why do you do what you do?”

When Pietro merely raises an eyebrow, Scott struggles to elaborate.  “I mean...why are you with the Brotherhood? I get that you hate the X-Men and think we’re stupid or whatever, but do you really believe in Mystique to follow her? And...that other guy.  Magneto. Doesn’t he scare you?”

 

Scott isn’t prepared for exactly how quickly Pietro’s expression turns dangerous.  The colour drains from his face and suddenly he’s tense like he had been on Thursday.  His heel stops thumping.

“Doesn’t Xavier scare you?” he asks icily, glaring, and Scott backs up a half-step before he can stop himself, unprepared for the turnaround.  “You’re willing to let him train you into a soldier in his personal army? His passion project of narcissism, throwing children into the fray under his own name.  What do you think he’s training you for? Why do you think he needs you to fight?”

A small part of Scott thinks to apologise, say that this isn’t what he intended to start with the question.  The rest is consumed by his temper, goaded by Pietro’s attitude.

“The Professor isn’t selfish,” he says, too loudly.  “He took us into his own home out of the goodness of his heart—“

Pietro barks a laugh.  “For the small price of your life.”

 

Scott wants to punch him.  

“Not for any price! We don’t have to fight.  We _choose_ to, because it’s the right thing to do.  We want to protect others like us, just like the Professor does.”

“Do you pick and choose like he does, too?”

“The Professor doesn’t _choose_ who to save!”

“Then why didn’t he save me?!”

Pietro’s voice is so loud all of a sudden, so full of hurt and fury, that it seems to physically push Scott back.  He stumbles, the fire of his temper dying out beneath the ice of Pietro’s pain.

“I—“ he stammers, but then Pietro really does shove him.  Scott didn’t even see him move, but suddenly he’s not on the sinks and is instead stretching up so that he can get in Scott’s face, clutching the collar of his shirt in two harsh fists to keep Scott pressed to the wall.

“Why didn’t he save _us_?” he yells.  “He didn’t save Lance.  Didn’t even _try_.  He didn’t save Todd or Freddy.  _He didn’t fucking save Wanda_!”

 

Pietro shoves him again, knocks some of the breath out of him, and then he lets go and stumbles back towards the sinks, his whole body shaking and his breaths coming out short and shallow.  

“Hey,” Scott says desperately, pushing himself off the wall, and Pietro lashes out at him blindly, narrowly avoids knocking Scott’s glasses off of his face.  Scott tries again, steps closer, but this time Pietro doesn’t miss.

Scott manages to scrunch his eyes shut as soon as he feels his glasses shift, and is thus unable to help himself as they tumble and hit the floor and go skidding off somewhere with the sharp scrape of metal against tile.  

Pietro takes another shuddering breath in the ensuing silence, and Scott wonders if Pietro had blinded him intentionally, to keep him from looking.  

 

“Are...are you okay?“ he asks, unsure whether he’s saying it to a Pietro or a wall or a stall door or what.  He doesn’t even know if Pietro’s still in the room - the boy could be in Mexico by now, if he wanted to be. There’s the sound of movement, of Pietro’s trainers squeaking against the floor, and Scott thinks that that must be him leaving - until suddenly there’s breath right against his neck, just beneath his ear.

“You’re a piece of shit, Summers,” Pietro says, soft and scathing.  “You and all the rest of Xavier’s soldiers.”

A breeze, a door slamming, then silence.

Scott stews in it for a few long minutes, trying to work out his feelings, before he lets out a bitter sigh and resigns himself to crouching down and crawling until he finds his glasses.  The room isn’t big, he thinks, but they could’ve easily skidded behind a toilet or into the gap beneath the sink cupboards.

He clenches his fist, trying to reign in his anger, and he realises then that his glasses are in his hand.  He’s confused for a moment, wondering if he’d somehow caught them by instinct without realising, but then he thinks about Pietro coming so close before he left.

He must’ve given them back, curled Scott’s hand around them without him noticing, before he disappeared.

 

There’s a strange and uncomfortable mix of ire and tenderness in Scott’s chest as he replaces the glasses on his face, opening his eyes to see the empty, red-flushed room.

He wonders who Wanda is, wonders what Pietro needed saving from, wonders why the boy hates Charles Xavier so fiercely.

He wonders if he’ll ever get to know.

 

☁︎

 

“Fag!”

Of all the things that people like to yell at Pietro in the school hallways, it’s one of the less original choices - which means that it’s the work of Duncan Matthews.

“Creative,” Pietro responds with a smile, spinning around - ignoring the way it makes his head spin - to see the footballer and his friends leaning against a row of lockers, looking proud of themselves.  “But I think I’ve earned the second half of the word too, don’t you? Didn’t suck all those dicks for nothing, after all. I like to be credited for my work.”

 

The “rumours”, of course, had also been the work of Matthews and his friends, but Pietro has been loathe to acknowledge them, despite how furious Lance has been ever since someone in his gym class stifled a laugh as they asked if it was true.

Lance had been sent home that day, and so had the other guy.  The only difference was that the other guy had a broken nose and a bump to the head from Lance tackling him to the floor, and Lance just had bruised knuckles and - blessedly - no addition to his colourful criminal record.

Teenage boys are such idiots.  Pietro would bemoan his sexuality if the girls of Bayville weren’t just as bad, but at least they’re _easier_.  Pietro’s never fought with a girl he’d liked quite like he’s fought with Lance and Scott.

 

But even those two idiots are nothing compared to the jocks - all cartoonish caricatures of their archetype.

“‘S’not ‘work’ if you enjoy it, Maximoff,” one of the shorter boys - dark-haired, sans letterman jacket - grins, parroting words which had been spoken in a school assembly about their futures last week.  It makes sense that the jocks would mock it - they’re probably still struggling to comprehend that high school football doesn’t last forever, and they’re all going to be losers in college if any of them manage to scrape a sports scholarship.  “And you must do, considering you just came crawling out of that bathroom down there again. Who’s in there? Bet it’s Alvers.”

 

Pietro thinks of Scott, still stood in there by himself, and the thought of him getting cornered by Duncan and the others makes Pietro’s heart jump in a way he doesn’t like at all.

“Oh, please.  You’re just jealous it wasn’t you.”

It’s intentionally goading, trying to work them up so they’ll either pay attention to him rather than the door all the way at the end of the hallway or just get bored when it becomes apparent that their lame insults aren’t doing shit, but it falls flat when the bathroom door opens and Scott fucking Summers comes walking out.  Pietro clenches his jaw as the jocks burst into loud, obnoxious laughter, catching the attention of the few other students in the hallway who fairly quickly decide to give the group a wider berth.

“Summers!” Duncan yells, sounding delighted, and Scott jumps noticeably, spinning around to face the taller boy.  “I didn’t know you were the type, man. Guess you’re not so _straight_ -laced after all.”

 

Another round of laughter, and Scott looks a dangerous mixture of confused, annoyed, and _angry_ as he walks closer.

“What the hell do you want, Duncan?” he demands, looking over the group, and it’s then that his eyes meet Pietro’s.  His confusion increases, perhaps wondering if Pietro had put the group up to this, but then one of the bigger jocks grabs Pietro far too roughly by the shoulder and shoves him forwards a bit, his grip not letting up.

“We were just asking _Py-tro_ here what you two were getting up to in the bathroom.”

Pietro scowls and jerks his shoulder, just fast enough for the asshole’s wrist to click.  He wrenches his hand back with a cry of pain and confusion, cradling it, and Pietro smirks at him.

“It’s _Pietro_ , you thick-tongued asshole, and we weren’t talking about anything.  I was just a captive audience to you losers’ performance of jock _West Side Story_.  Which sucks, by the way.  You should ask the theatre kids to give you some pointers.”

 

The punch swung at his face doesn’t come as much of a surprise.  Pietro dodges the clumsy left hook easily and laughs in the guy’s face, but Scott doesn’t seem to find the humour in the situation.

“Hey!” he yells, diving forwards to grab the back of the guy’s letterman jacket and wrench him backwards, away from Pietro.  The boy’s attention swings like a dog’s, and a moment later another shitty punch is connecting with Scott’s chest. Pietro throws himself into the fray a split second too late, and Scott is already coughing by the time he’s managed to get between the two much larger guys and aim for the jock’s jaw.  He swings, but then a large hand grabs his wrist and twists it backwards, and he can’t help the way he cries out in a mixture of pain and distress - why is he so _slow_?

 

“Pansy’s trying to fight!” someone jeers, prompting another spattering of laughter.  Pietro twists and manages to yank his arm out of the jock’s grip, and - in the same moment - spin around and punch him in the jaw, hard enough that his teeth clack together audibly.  He doesn’t go down, just stumbles backwards with a sort of wail, but Pietro doesn’t have much of a chance to enjoy it before someone’s grabbing him and someone else is taking a swing at his face, and from there it’s all chaos.

A few passing students shout out encouragements while others shout out pleas to stop, threats to call the principal.  The jocks don’t do much but grunt with each of their clumsy attacks, apparently treating this like the football field, but Scott and Pietro don’t make a terrible team.  Pietro spends most of the scrap watching Scott’s back, swinging at or tripping up anybody who comes close to landing a dangerous hit on the other boy - and he pays the price for it himself with a few of them landing on _him_ instead.

 

He’s really not moving that much faster than anyone else, and that’s confusing and a little bit scary, because even this feels like he’s pushing himself.  It’s like he’s moving through treacle, all of his muscles trying to protest each movement, and then dizziness comes over him in a wave. He stumbles, reaching out blindly to balance himself against something, but he gets nothing but a solid punch to the cheekbone that sends him straight to the floor.

There’s blood rushing in his ears, loud enough that it sounds like a crowd screaming, and the floor feels like it’s shifting beneath him, and his vision is spinning like it does when he loses control when he’s moving too fast.  Like it does when he goes days and days without eating.

It’s loud - too loud - and he’s just thinking ‘ _Scott_ ’, and then his senses finally come back to him and the chaos has ceased.

 

There’s someone crouched in front of him, shoulders squared like they’re protecting him, and it takes him only a single moment to recognise it as Lance, his hair a mess and blood smeared over his stupid fingerless leather gloves.  Most of the jocks are still standing, most only a little bit bruised, but there’s one seemingly passed out cold on the floor with blood poured down his nose and mouth.

Lance’s victim, more than likely.

Beyond the jocks, Scott is stood with a busted lip and one hand still holding his glasses to his face, perhaps on instinct.  

In the center of all of this stands Principal Kelly, who looks furious.  He’s shouting, and the words fade in like a radio station through static.

 

“—troublemakers! Every day you make the case against you worse.  It’s almost as if it’s in your _nature_.”

Of course, he’s yelling at the three mutants - not a word spoken to the jocks.

“It was self-defence!” Scott cries angrily.  “Lucas tried to hit Pietro first!”

“In case I’m mistaken,” Kelly says, voice cold, “You and Mr. Maximoff are all but sworn enemies.  Tell me, why exactly were you so eager to jump into a fight to protect his honour, Mr. Summers?”

Scott falters, looking almost embarrassed.

“He didn’t protect shit!” Lance yells, sounding genuinely furious as he springs suddenly to his feet.  It’s a tone Pietro has heard only a few times before, and Lance’s posture screams _violence_ in such a manner that Kelly backs away a few steps rather than trying to interrupt his path to Scott.  Lance grabs him by the shirt collar and wrenches him to his tiptoes, and another tremor travels through the ground.  “‘Tro almost got knocked the fuck out, you piece of _shit_! You think you’re a protector? A hero? You fucking _asshole_!”

 

A security guard grabs Lance and pulls him back just before his fist can hit Scott’s jaw, struggles to wrangle him while he kicks and writhes and seethes and the floor shakes.

“Lance,” Pietro says, suddenly finding his voice and struggling to get to his feet, not at all helped by the uncontrolled bursts of Lance’s powers.  His vision swims again, but he tries not to show it. His face fucking _hurts_.  “I’m fine.   _Lance_ , I’m okay.  It’s okay. Come on, stop.  You’re only going to make it worse.”

As if it isn’t bad enough already.  Pietro can only be thankful that his and Lance’s usage of their powers wasn’t obvious enough to tip anybody off, but there’s no way they’re getting out of this without some sort of action by the school.

Father is going to be _furious_.

 

Pietro suddenly feels very, very nauseous, but some of it fades when Lance struggles to turn in the guard’s arms and their eyes meet.  His face is full of concern, protective, and Pietro is struck with the simultaneous urge to kiss him and to slap him.

“Calm down,” he says instead, quiet and a little bit hoarse, and Lance nods slowly.  The earthquake fades.

“I’m calm,” he says.  Breathes deeply.  “I’m good.”  Then, “Are you okay?”

Pietro isn’t, but he nods - an easy lie.  The last of the tension seems to drain from Lance, but the guard doesn’t let him go.  He’s still holding him way too hard, one arm across his chest to keep his arms pinned to his sides and the other at his belt, ready to grab some weapon or another at the slightest show of disobedience.  Pietro wants to kill the asshole for daring to touch Lance, to hurt him, but he’s in no position.

 

He’s used to recognising the point where it’s best to just accept what happens, because kicking and screaming and crying will only make it worse.

Another lesson from Father.

 

“The three of you, follow me.”

Kelly’s voice is still so cold.  He turns and makes his way towards his office, and Pietro hears the voice of another security guard and the nurse talking gently to Duncan and the others as he follows, falling into step with Scott.  Lance is being dragged in front of them both, still held tightly like he’s some dangerous criminal.

“Hey,” Scott whispers.  “Are you okay?”

Pietro’s already incredibly sick of the question.  He wants to be angry with Scott, to turn and glower at him or ignore him or maybe just accept that he’s already fucked so he might as well just turn around and punch the idiot in the jaw.

But he thinks about every punch he took for Scott, the way his heart would jump every time he saw Scott in danger, and he thinks of Wanda and Father and blood on tile floors and words whispered in darkness when everything is over.

 

_Are you okay?_

 

“No,” he whispers back, expression flat and cold, and then he speeds up his pace so that Scott can’t speak to him any more.  

The security guard sits Lance down on the middle chair of the three in front of Kelly’s desk in the Principal’s office, so Pietro sits on his left and Scott reluctantly sinks down on his right.  The security guard stands behind them, blocking the door, and Kelly rounds his desk to stand facing them, staring at them long enough to make Lance squirm and make Pietro want to crawl out of his skin.  He wants to say something, wants to make Kelly mad so that he’ll just start fucking talking, but he doesn’t want to put Lance and Scott in any more danger.

He has to protect them - always has to protect.  Always has to take the brunt of whatever he can.

 

Somehow, though, it’s Scott who ends up talking.

Pietro was planning to jump in immediately, to talk his way into as much trouble as possible if it would mean that Scott and Lance’s sentences would be lessened - and that’s what it has to be, a sentence, not expulsion, not being given up on.

Not abandonment.

But his senses feel dulled again, like he’s got a pillowcase over his head and the conversation is taking place in the next room.  Kelly is still yelling, but he gets quieter as time goes on, his voice softening to something simply cold, and then finally to something almost human.  Scott’s voice is interspersed with it, and he’s talking like he does on the battlefield, with the X-Men. Like a hero - like a leader.

 

Pietro struggles to focus, because he wants to hear, wants to know exactly what’s going on, but he doesn’t manage to - or perhaps his brain just doesn’t let him - until most of the tension is entirely gone from the situation.  He blinks, gaze finally focusing where it’s been flitting around rapidly and unseeingly, and he realises that Lance has shuffled their chairs closer, pressed himself closer to Pietro, and their hands are linked in the small space between the sides of both their thighs - carefully hidden from Kelly and the guard.  Lance’s skin feels so warm it’s almost burning. Pietro feels so, so cold.

 

“This isn’t a situation which can be taken lightly, regardless of who is at fault,” Kelly is saying, gaze carefully roaming over the three teenagers in front of him.

“We understand that,” Scott says politely.  “Violence in schools is always unpleasant. I bet anyone would agree, if they found out.”

 

Ah.  Maybe Scott isn’t being quite as goody-two-shoes as Pietro had thought.

He struggles to subdue a smile at the way Kelly blanches, and kicks Lance’s heel when the older boy fails to hold back a snort.  He clumsily turns it into a cough, and Kelly thankfully doesn’t look at them.

“O—of course, I hope that this is an issue that can be kept between us for the moment,” Kelly says.  “Everyone involved will be dealt with. Including you three, but also including Mr. Matthews and the other boys.  We can...try some immediate disciplinary action, before we think about getting your guardian or anyone else involved, hm, Mr. Summers?”

 

Even though he knows what ‘disciplinary’ in a school setting means, the word still opens a pit in Pietro’s cramping stomach.

Ow.  When did that start? He hadn’t noticed the pain, but it seems to consume him rather suddenly now, makes him fidget in his seat.  Lance’s hand tightens its grip as Kelly runs a hand down his face.

“Alright,” he says.  “Mr. Maximoff and Mr. Summers, you two will be in detention all week for starting the fight, even if it _was_ \- as Scott says - in self-defence.  Mr. Alvers, I think a week-long exclusion will be enough for you for _finishing_ it.”

 

It’s not a perfect outcome, certainly, and Pietro feels the way Lance panics, the way his grip tightens further and then grows slack as he sits up in his seat.  He’s going to start yelling, Pietro knows, start insisting that this isn’t _fair_ , so Pietro tightens his own grip and keeps him down.

“Yes, sir,” he says, meeting Kelly’s eyes.  “I think that will be plenty of time.”

‘ _Be glad it’s not more, idiot_.’

Pietro feels the apology in the way Lance squeezes his hand, his shoulders draining of tension steadily.  Kelly gives them both a strict look, but there’s tiredness in his face - the clearly painted fact that he really doesn’t want to have to deal with this anymore.

 

“Mr. Alvers, a letter will be sent home about your exclusion, but I think it would be best if you considered it to begin now, unless you wish to go and see the nurse for your injuries.  You can return again on Monday next week - I’ll organise a reintegration meeting for you and a guardian.”

Well.  Looks like Pietro is going to be forging another letter from one Raven Darkholme about how she’s busy with work and can’t attend.  What a joke.

Thankfully, Lance just nods, and Kelly sighs again, handing both Pietro and Scott a slip of paper - a note explaining their tardiness.

“Mr. Maximoff and Mr. Summers, you two can go back to class, but you’ll be staying after school today and every day for the rest of the week.  I’ll have a room decided upon by the end of the day. Your teachers will let you know.”

Scott thanks the Principal politely, and Pietro mumbles something that might count as the same, before all three of them are being freed from the room and let out into the empty corridor, the school near silent as classes progress.

 

“You two, to the nurse and then straight up to class,” the guard barks as he closes the office door behind the four of them, turning to point at Scott and Pietro, then he turns his gaze to Lance, “You, out.  One of these two can pick up your work after detention and bring it to you.”

For a moment, it seems as if he’s going to stand and watch them, just to make sure that they all really do what they’ve been ordered to, but then he turns and disappears off down the hall, leaving the three of them in silence.  They stand stock still, listening as the click of his boots steadily fades, listening to see if there’s any risk of Kelly emerging from his office again, but silence comes and stays, and suddenly Lance is grabbing Pietro like a man starved.

His thumb runs over Pietro’s cheekbone, draws a pained hiss from him as he gets a feel for exactly how bad the injury is, and then suddenly they’re kissing.

 

Pietro’s cheeks flush and he panics, very aware that Scott is right there and he can see them - he’s _watching_ \- but Lance is shaking just slightly against him, and he can’t help but to kiss back.  His eyes slide closed, one hand settling on Lance’s shoulder while the other tangles carefully in his long hair, and he lets Lance press close to him and move their lips together as the older boy rides out whatever protective panic he’s been in since he showed up magically at the scene of the fight.

Still, Pietro pulls back firmly long before they’re anywhere near makeout territory, and his gaze roams over Lance’s face for a single moment, making sure he’s okay, before it travels to Scott, who’s standing slack-jawed and red-cheeked with somehow the same look in his eyes as the one he’d worn when Kelly had asked why he’d jumped into the fight to protect Pietro.

Something like shame, like embarrassment.

 

“Uh—uh, sorry,” he says quickly, backing up a half-step as both Lance and Pietro look at him, the two of them still pressed close in some sort of embrace.  Pietro shakes his head and steps away from Lance, hoping to ease the awkwardness of all of this at least a little, but it doesn’t really work. “I didn’t know.  I didn’t know you two were…were like that.”

“‘S’not a big deal,” Lance says, eyes narrowed in something like a glare, and Scott’s face reddens further.

“It’s not!” he agrees.  “It’s...it’s really not.  I’m sorry. I think I’m just...a bit on-edge right now.  I’m gonna go see the nurse, to get...my face...s—sorted. Fuck.  I’m sorry.”

He rushes off then, something like pain in his gaze, and Pietro wants to follow him but he also really, really doesn’t want to go anywhere near the infirmary.  He knows he’s too slow to catch up with Scott, too, but Lance’s arms are wrapping around him from behind and a kiss is being pressed to the back of his neck before he can start really working himself up.

 

“Are you okay?” he asks softly, carefully, and Pietro sort of wants to cry for a lot of different reasons, but he nods and says ‘ _yeah’_.  His face hurts.  His stomach hurts.  His head hurts.

“’M’gonna head home, then.  I’ll pick you up after detention.  Every day. Tell Todd and Freddy they can either hang around to wait for you or walk.”

Pietro lets out a soft breath of a laugh, lets Lance kiss his neck again rather than turning around to kiss him properly like he really wants to, and then the arms around him are gone and he’s forced to listen to Lance’s boots announce his retreat, still feeling nauseous and vaguely dizzy.

 

He wonders if Father already knows what happened.  He’s made it abundantly clear that he’s keeping a close eye on Pietro, and is also willing to show up whenever he really fucks up, but getting into a scrap at school doesn’t really count for anything, right? No powers were used _noticeably_ , nothing was revealed before Magneto decides the world is ready, nobody really got hurt.

Father will be disappointed.  But maybe he won’t be angry. Maybe he’ll decide that the school’s discipline - and Pietro’s self-administered punishment of his dizzy head and cramping stomach and freezing cold fingers - is enough.

 

It’s the only thing that allows Pietro to feign any degree of normalcy as he makes his way towards his class without his bag or any books - just a bloodied bruise on his cheekbone that’s showing no signs of healing and an irregularity to his slow steps that feels like torture.

The class stares at him as he walks in, including Kitty Pryde in the front row.  Her brows crease in no small degree of concern, surely already planning to call Lance later and see what happened, but Pietro ignores her - ignores everyone.  The teacher doesn’t even ask for a tardy note, just lets him slide into a seat at the back of the class and drop his head atop his crossed forearms.

 

He just has to make it through the week, he tells himself, but even that feels too daunting, so he tells himself that he just has to make it through today, just a few more hours, in a weak attempt to combat what he knows is the truth.

It’s only ever going to get worse.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thank you so much for reading! please leave a comment if you enjoyed! 💞  
> if everything goes to plan, next chapter will be the last, but i’ve got some other stuff planned for this ‘verse - including a one-shot prequel of sorts regarding the beginnings of lance and pietro’s relationship


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